Pretty
by antra
Summary: He really hated that word


**Pretty**  
_He really hated that word  
This is just fan fiction. I don't own own anything but the idea to this fic  
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Dean considered himself a very laid back guy.

He didn't need a lot to be happy: some food, a beer or a woman was more than enough for him. In combination it was even better.

He scanned the bar for a potential partner for a sweaty work out. There were the ones that already had a partner, one who had a partner but wanted to play regardless and 2 who practically vibrated with desperation about being alone.

He ignored them and focused on the other ones.

A group of women at a table, perhaps. One alone at the bar, he knew she wasn't interested.

Two to the side deciding what they wanted from the jukebox. A possibility. Would depend on their choice of song.

He went to the bar and ordered a beer.

His ears registered the giggle on the all-female table despite him being at a distance. A combination of the gals being partially drunk and the trained ears of a hunter, no doubt.

"Wow, see this pretty guy? How do we get him at our table?"

"Come on, Tish, look around. We are the only ones here that could interest him."

Laughter.

Pretty, how he hated this word. Pretty or beautiful. Hated it since he became and teen and people started to treat him strangely and his father looked at him as if he were something delicate.

So he became harder and trained more to show his father that he could do his job, that he wasn't some little child that needed protection.

It took him a while to realize that he looked like his mother and that just looking at him hurt his father.

So more training to get into a shape that was nothing like mom. So his father would look at him again.

It didn't change his face but it wasn't so glaring anymore

Didn't change the fact that he got the comments.

Other hunters expected hunters to look different. Redneck material.

He learned to live with the 'pretty boy's, the guys propositioning him in their sleazy motels when he was clearly very underage.

John Winchester stopped treating him like a delicate little flower after Dean made clear that No meant No when he was 14. He kicked the guy in a very delicate area and broke his jaw on top of that.

The women at the table had made themselves completely uninteresting.

He used his looks, sure, but he was never that shallow.

Woman came in all forms and shapes and they all had something that made them interesting.

He fondly remembered this bodybuilder, Shannon, up in New Jersey. That woman had had an unbelievable muscle control...

His interest went to the two who were at the jukebox.

One of them was dancing to some awful song, the other looked like she couldn't believe her girlfriend had such a bad taste in music. Jackpot.

He came next to her, checked for any signs that disqualified her he couldn't have seen from the distance. No wedding ring, no lighter skin where a ring had been a while ago. No outfit that screamed she needed a hook-up or was desperate for some attention.

She was a bit sturdy and had that look that people interpreted as wholesome, practical and pragmatic. Big brown eyes framed by this glasses you saw in movies of the 50s and 60s on secretaries, cute little nose.

"How much did your friend drink that she can dance to this utter crap?"

She mustered him, a sigh escaped her.

The sigh of somebody who was left alone at the bar after her friend found somebody to entertain herself with and to phone in the morning to know she was still alive and around.

"Not much, she just doesn't know any better."

"Good, then you can leave her alone and we can amuse ourselves without her."

She blinked her eyes. Then she mustered him.

"You want me to go with some strange guy I don't even know the name of?" She challenged him, her eyes twinkled with mirth and a promise of fire. Yeah, he knew she would be interesting.

"My name is Dean but I'm not really particular about what you want to call me tonight."

Deciding he wasn't joking she gave him a beautiful smile and wandered over to her friend, telling her that she was going.

She just nodded absently and went back to her uncoordinated dancing.

His date for the night came back.

"And what do you want me to call you?"

She tugged his head down to her height and kissed him. She tasted of dark chocolate, beer and peaches, a combination that fitted her surprisingly well.

"Desiree. But I'm not particular about what you call me either."

They managed to get out of the bar before one or both of them did something that would have them arrested for indecent exposure.

The group of woman on the table looked after the pair, shocked that mousy little Desiree managed to get the guy.

And on the bar a witch drank her drink and relaxed a bit. One guy less she had to punish for being a shallow dickhead.


End file.
